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Monthly Archives: July 2014

These days you see more non-military, redneck American men sporting camouflage clothes than 50 divisions of Airborne soldiers. Moreover, the “free” militia movement, where tubby, never-served-in-the-military morons dress up like real soldiers and run around the woods playing Army, has grown the last few years since the American people twice elected Barack Obama, which to the lumpen redneck masses is a sign of impending doom for our republic, and hence they feel the need to stock up on military-grade rifles and camouflaged military gear. The fancy themselves “protectors” of the Constitution and citizenry. They are neither.

I know America is a free country, and our citizens are free to make jackasses out of themselves however they see fit, but I am also free to sneer at these fat fucks playing soldier. However, they are not soldiers, and they are not protecting a goddamn thing in this country except their goofy, neurotic, narcissistic need to live out their fantasy life. Running around the woods in camouflaged military gear, toting military-grade assault rifles, and even joining these so-called “citizen militias” does not make one a soldier.

Soldiers swear oaths to protect the Constitution, abide by the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), and obey the orders of commissioned officers appointed by the government. They are part of a chain of command that begins with our freely-elected President and moves down the line of officers and NCOs who are all professional soldiers with years of training and experience. They enforce policy, right or wrong, that is guided by our democratic principles and the Constitutional authority of the chain of command.

A bunch of redneck yahoos armed to the hilt and dressed like soldiers do not abide by any code of honor or duty that even begins to resemble real military service. They’re more a danger to the citizenry than protectors of it. They’re an armed mob. They are undemocratic and governed by nothing but their ignorant whims and narrow-minded political and ideological views.

And here’s my pantheon of camo fatty heroes. I don’t know these stupid fuckers from Adam, but I found all these photos on the Internet, so while they exercise their Second Amendment right to bear arms, I am exercising my First Amendment right to mock the living fuck out of them, fling shit at them, and call them all kinds of mean names.

I served seven years in the real Army, swore to protect these Constitutional rights as the basis of my service, so I am gladly repaying my own service by exercising my free speech here. I welcome every one of the douchebags I mock here to challenge me on this. I don’t fear a mob of armed, pot-bellied assholes parading around as phony soldiers any more than I fear children playing Army in the woods with toy weapons. Barack Obama has been legitimately elected and he’s not the anti-christ or Hitler-Stalin fascist-commie he’s been portrayed by the drooling right-wing extremists and Tea Party morons. To take up arms against the legitimate government, freely elected by the people, is fucking treason. To call for overthrowing our government without using Constitutional means is sedition.

All you fat asshole militia dudes are, to me—a Veteran US Army soldier and true patriot—a bunch of treasonous pigs. I shit on you all, no matter how honorable you think your cause(s). You dishonor the service and sacrifice of the men and women who swore that real oath of service and served with honor and duty to the people of this country. You crap on our Constitution and democratic principles. You’re really a bunch of childish morons.

So here’s my extended middle-finger salute to you, oh great camo fatty militia heroes. May you all trip on your AR-15 rifles and blow off what tiny testicles you possess.

Here we have General “Black Jack” Buttcrack off to battle in the Walmart Cheetos aisle. No telling what kind of armed resistance he might face in his quest for cheap processed carbohydrates and soft drinks laden with high fructose corn syrup, just what this tub of lard needs to ingest.

Here’s Colonel Blubberus T. Chubbins of the 101st Squirrel Rangers awaiting deployment to the front lines to do battle with the evil doers at Burger King. Squirrel Rangers lead the way! (Apparently with their man boobs.)

Where would America be without these corpulent militiamen protecting us from…well, we’re not sure of that yet, but look at this fine, fat he-man, Major Hugie Fattums, from the 101st Squirrel Rangers, armed and ready to save America from the heathen fascist invaders from…British Columbia?

In the great upcoming battle to save Wisconsin from Arab terrorists, zombies, and Obama supporters, valiant and brave militiamen like Captain Doofie Goofus, whose military expertise comes from watching Platoon and Rambo III 10,000 times, smartly briefs his soldiers on brilliant military tactics like how to find usable porta-potties during the zombie apocalypse.

And don’t ya’ll go thinking our untrained heroes in camo ain’t ready for a winter campaign against the rampaging zombie hordes. Check out Master Sergeant Bluto Bitchtitts from the 503rd Chairborne Fatty Regiment of the 101st Squirrel Rangers on the left, sporting the 5XXXX “Huge-n-Fat” winter gear, which even sports secret pockets to hold his extensive Twinkie supply. A hero needs to eat! Best of all, it snugly accommodates his adult diaper and the copious pantload already contained within.

Next time you hear the song “Battle Hymn Republic” I want you to picture this great hero, Corporal Biggie Jiggles (who graciously takes time off from his job at Taco Bell to participate) of the Muscatine Militia, a subordinate unit of the Plus-Sized Patriots, where physical fitness is eschewed in favor of gorging on Moon Pies dipped in Wendy’s Frostys, or “A-Rats” as the big boys like to call them, and “double time” means another heaping helping of Aunt Shirley’s awesome Mac-n-Cheez casserole.

Ah, America, breathe in the awesome free air protected by such brave patriots as this hero, Petty Officer Earl “Double-Chin” Waddlefat of the McHale’s Navy Seals, a highly “ooo-rah!” waterborne militia that hones its skills in the back yard wading pool of its brave leader, Commander Bert “Fartles” McHale, who once served in the real Navy briefly but washed out of boot camp for drowning in the shower. These fierce frogmen can only hope the socialist hippie Obama-loving hordes start treading on the freedoms of real Americans like this manly warrior. Take away Earl’s guns? Motherf***** you might as well try to take away his Cheetos!

Finally, let us bask in the bright light emitted by these manly warriors of the Hazard County Special Ranger Squad, led by the rotund but fierce Captain “Chubby” Chuckie Rumpwhistle, who never served in the real military but once worked as a security guard at Costco. He’s surrounded by his loyal minions, who dutifully observe as he demonstrates how to operate his granddad’s old squirrel rifle. Rest easy, Kentucky, you’re well protected by this Band of Brothers.

When I was a freshman in college there was a music war between the rock traditionalists who clung to The Rolling Stones, Hendrix, Who, Led Zeppelin, Rush, Ozzy, el al., opposed by the modernists who championed Punk and New Wave bands like Talking Heads, Dead Kennedys, Ramones, Buzzcocks, Joy Division, and this band, The Clash, labeled by its most passionate fans as “The Only Band That Matters.” I loved “Classic Rock” but this new music out of New York City, London, and Manchester won me over by the sheer excellence and excitement of the music; it was my generation finding a voice and sound to call its own, and here it was in all its glory on London Calling, the greatest Punk/Post-Punk/New Wave record by the best band.

I realized something in early 1982 as I absorbed the ethos inspiring this new, radical, cool music: It was time to move on from the music and ideas from the 60s and 70s. It was time to change. It was time to grow. It changed my life in how I viewed everything, not just music, but also politics, society, culture, and my role in the greater world. Mainly it forced me to look at myself and change who I was—indeed, inspired by this new music and new ideas, I looked within myself to find what I could change, and change I did in radicals ways that I’d been previously frightened to even consider.

In 1981-82 I felt trapped in a life I felt I was living for others; I was a fat, miserable, decadent, substance-abusing mope wandering around without feeling or purpose. I felt myself wasting away in college, bored and throughly uninterested in the path it was taking me. One morning I woke up and decided to take control of my life, change myself, even reinvent who I was to the very core of my being. And I did–I dropped out of college, joined the Army, and got as far away from my previously miserable life as I possibly could. It was my act of rebellion on the one hand and a cleansing of all my previous sins on the other, a chance to reinvent myself as the person I wanted to be, not who I was.

London Calling is now, oddly enough, played on Classic Rock radio, and of course it’s classic Rock & Roll as much as The Who or Stones or Zeppelin or Rush. But in the early 80s it was a revolution of sound, style, and attitude, a new generation taking the music of Elvis, Chuck Berry, The Stones, Beatles, Who, Zeppelin, Bowie, etc. and taking it elsewhere, to different, newer directions. The Clash played a diverse melange of styles on this record, from Ska and Reggae to Punk and traditional English Rock, and even a little Blues and Country, all filtered through Joe Strummer’s unique voice and vision. It wasn’t Punk any more in the way Tommy wasn’t a Mod record by The Who. It was just Rock & Roll. GREAT Rock & Roll. It was rebellious. Cool. Intelligent. And of course it kicked butt. It was the defining work of my generation.

Happy 30th to one of the most ridiculously over-hyped and yet still totally awesome dance tracks of all time. Frankie said RELAX and we did!

As a straight man who has always sided with, and fought for, the rights of all my dear LGBT friends worldwide, there was no better expression of pure, unashamed, unbridled, joyful gayness than what these maniacally naughty queens from Liverpool put down on this track. The revolution was well served with this legendary anthem and declaration of sexual free will.

And the fight is not over! 19 states down with 31 remaining! Frankie says gay marriage is a Constitutional right!

The summer of 1978 between 9th grade and our sophomore year of high school, my little clique—Chip Johnston, Doug Russell, Chip’s girlfriend Robin Overhoff, Doug’s girlfriend Robin Dalzell, and whatever other assorted fools, party fiends, and hangers-on we collected along the way—would rally at Chip’s house at 3 pm every day, as his parents worked second shift at CBS records, giving us free reign of Chip’s house, his step-dad Jim Keefer’s awesome stereo system and fantastic weed stash from which we pinched “juuust a taste” every day, and of course Chip’s Mom, Betty, always stocked the fridge knowing her sweet baby boy and his gang needed sustenance! We’d crank on the black lights and lava lamps, blast music so loud we’d be deaf by the end of the night, and flop around Chip’s house like idiots dancing to Boston, Ted Nugent, Rush, AC/DC, Earth, Wind & Fire, Aerosmith, Sly and the Family Stone, Zeppelin, Kiss and so much more.

Chip’s old man had every great record ever made that he bought super cheap from all the great employee sales at CBS, so we hardly ever wasted our own money on music or weed that summer; Jim was cool in that he knew we were pilfering his stash, but we never abused his benevolence, so he’d just snarl at us to make Betty happy, but you could see him wink as he snarled. Jim was in a biker gang but was a cool, kind man who’d served in the Korean War. I guess he figured it was better Chip kept his wild ways at home than on the streets. Like I said, it was the 1970s—the rules were ambiguous at best.

Perhaps, in hindsight some 36 years later, it’s a horrifying thought remembering the unbridled licentious lifestyle we original latchkey kids lived back in the late 70s, but we all turned out fine, thank you very much. Well, maybe it took me a while to reach that point…whatever. And maybe it aged my poor Mom. Be we have all those super cool memories from that crazy summer.

Melancholy and heartbreak are made beautiful in this classic by Cock Robin, an American band who took this to the top of the charts in Europe the summer of 1987.

I lived about 30 kilometers from the German-French border then and first heard this on a French radio station one morning while driving my German girlfriend, Tanya, home after she’d spent the night at my house. It was a quiet ride as my Firebird barreled down the L465 roadway from my town, Martinshöhe, to her home in Zweibrücken; we were both deep in thought and hardly spoke–which was normal because, between us, we barely spoke each other’s languages–and after this song finished we looked at each other and nodded in agreement, wow, what a lovely song.

I asked her, “Kennst du diese Lied, Liebling?”

“Nay,” she replied.

“I think we should,” I declared.

And we did get to know that song. It was a great summer for music and this became our favorite. It was just a great summer all around.

Well…until that August when Tanya caught me coming out of a movie theater in Homburg, hand-in-hand with a very pretty American girl, Heather, with whom I had been blithely cheating on Tanya for weeks. That was the end of Tanya and me. A year later I learned from Tanya’s best friend that Tanya died of a cerebral aneurysm about eight months after we split up. She was 20. Wow. She was a beautiful, brilliant, and intense girl I loved dearly. I was just a lousy person when I loved her.